To him.
She knew.
Caramyn felt her face getting hot at how foolish she must seem. She didn’t like the thought of putting her trust in gods, or magic, or whatever else was out there, when she’d made it this far by the faith she had in herself. But something in her craved rest in something stronger, just for a moment, even if it was just pretend. So, when she next heard the caravan chimes, she laidher burden into the wind. And as the breeze swept over her skin as though it had heard her thoughts, she told it just what to say.
On the final night, Zera insisted there was still enough leftover meat from the stag that she didn’t have to hunt. But something back out on the silent, ancient ice plains called to Caramyn, and she wanted to go anyway.
She packed for her journey back home, surprised at the heaviness she felt in her heart at the thought of leaving in the morning. She’d grown close to Zera, and enjoyed their meals and chats. Zera often shared with her stories of the caravan’s travels and traditional remedies from the desert plants of her homeland. She even taught her some Gahmean and Silverean words that would be helpful as she navigated this land alone.
She’d proven herself worthy of the bow, but Zera had left her with a much greater gift, whether she’d meant to or not.
Hope.
She would return home, to her Shadows, the only truths that had never betrayed her, and together they would never let anyone in again. Certainly not Asterious. Because he was a lying Blackwynd prince, and she was the witch of the woods.
But first she had one last hunt to complete.
She was dressed for the tundra, bow strung and in hand, as she glanced at the bundle of belongings and food for her departure in the morning, when something from outside—from above—called her attention. It was a sound so familiar she almostconvinced herself it was her imagination. But when it called again, she couldn’t deny it amidst the sound of beating wings. Her heart swelled at the sound. She knew those wings. She knew that call.
She ran out of the tent, looking desperately for any glimpse of a raven in the snow. But instead, she only found empty, frozen nothingness.
44
To the Wolves
Caramyn
She set out for the plains, venturing further than she had before. Far enough that she could make out a low glimmer of orange lights in the distance from a tiny clan village where the plains ended and sloped back down into jagged mountain edges. It wasn’t Ironfell, but it was similar enough.
She lurked, creeping along as deep snow crunched beneath her boots, listening for the echoes of the heartbeat of any creature that might be nearby. Her breath, silent and steady, warmed her nose as she breathed into her woolen face covering.
And then, a crisp cold whistle whirred past her just before snow plopped from the edge of a snowbank behind her.
An iron-tipped arrow.
She twisted to see it just before a second one flew and lodged itself next to the other. And when she glanced back, she was surrounded, flanked by clansmen from all sides.
Her luck had run out. She was wanted. And they had found her. And if that was the case, they likely didn’t want her dead. She was worth much more alive. And who knew what punishment would await her after they collected their bounty.
There were eight of them. One moved toward her—the leader of the group, his cold eyes more crystalline than the snow flurries dusting the air. “You come quietly, and you might still recognize yourself when we’re done with you,” he said. “You resist, and we will return you broken and so ruined, even the wolves won’t want what’s left.”
They closed around her, axes and spears raised, eyes raking over her like hot coals. She swallowed down a gulp of frigid air, the sting in her lungs only worsening the way her chest tightened. There was nowhere to go. They backed her against the snowbank, like ravenous animals playing with their food. She raised her bow, arms trembling from fear more than cold. She knew it wouldn’t save her, but she would not go willingly. She fired an arrow before they could blink, and struck a man straight through the eye.
The leader lunged at her, gripping her shoulder so hard she thought it might shatter, and threw her to the ground. She reached for her hunting knife, fumbling as he crouched down and wrapped his hand around her jaw, bringing her face to his.
“The wolves it is,” he sneered. His grip tightened and the other men closed in.
A flash of black feathers streaked across the sky behind him. A monstrous growl and a familiar chilling howl pierced the night.
No, it can’t be.
And then a force like a stone wall slammed into the man, ripping her from his grasp and leaving his torch dropped beside her so that she could clearly see his fate at the mercy of his attacker.
At the mercy of the wolf beast.
It dragged him away between massive jaws, bones crunching as the great wolf hurled the man to the ground before tearing him open with those vicious blades of teeth. A spray of crimson rained down and stained the snow red. Snarls mingled with the sound of flesh and tendons tearing filled the air.
Nauseated and horrified, Caramyn’s heart raced so wildly she thought it might burst through her ribs. She fought to keep her breathing steady as her blood ran cold watching the wolf mangle this man just steps away from her.
